


The Molten Firestorm

by DarkMrowlidash



Category: Guild Wars 2
Genre: Dredge, M/M, Mechaphilia, Molten Alliance, Other, Sylvari/Mining Suit, Unrequited Love, Weird, no regrets, this is the kind of shit I think about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMrowlidash/pseuds/DarkMrowlidash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collision of two improbable attractions, between two best friends. <br/>Sparks will find something to ignite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Molten Firestorm

**Author's Note:**

> soooooooooooo I thought of this on the bus earlier  
> Did I mention that I am the only person who likes dredge?
> 
> I'd like to preface this by saying that I am probably BUTCHERING GW2 LORE  
> Since I don't know shit about the living story, nor do I particularly care. I know that dredge and Flame Legion allied, but I don't know exactly where the dredge rebellion stands in this whole thing. 
> 
> But by my logic, if anyone would be seeking allies to branch out with, it would be the rebellion, not the dredge establishment. So in my headcanon, it's the rebellion that forms the Molten Alliance. Just keep that in mind while you read and it'll make sense. Maybe.
> 
> I really wanted to play with different -kinds- of unrequited love here, what it's like to long for someone you can't have, and what it's like to long for something that can't love you at all. So yeah. But it's mostly about lust and friendship. And lust. 
> 
> like with my other story, this is about my personal character, Phaynel. Feel free to hit me up in game! This time, I'm writing male Phaynel, because who cares about gender consistency, I don't!
> 
> anyway... Enjoy!

"I can always find you here, firestorm."

And that was true. When left to his own devices, Phaynel _always_ ended up here, Isaak's personal workshop, hidden away deep enough to escape the constant echo of dredge machinery... and weaponry. 

Phaynel answered to the name bestowed upon him by the rebellion's leader, even though he was no fan of nicknames, having named himself leaving the Dream--but for someone who had never  _seen_ his flame-streaked coat, the wild red of his inner glow, the way his eyes lit up when he brandished his torch--to so clearly understand his true nature, and then  _dare_ to name it? He allowed it. Secretly, he was honored. 

Even still, he offered his acknowledgement with only a grunt, not at all with his eyes, they were still held by the suit.

That's why he was here.

A massive piece of ironwork, dirty in the way all dredge things were. Tough angles and solid plates, black and bronze--and  _powerful_ , designed to bore into the toughest rock in the Frostgorge--but  _refined_ , to fuel the rebellion's needs. 

Needless to say, it was  _well_ refined. Where other suits had crude, closed fists or blunted spikes, this one had a perfect, functioning hand, paired on the opposite arm by a heavy drill. The gaps that peppered the lesser mining suits were all but closed, leaving out the vulnerabilities, changing this tool into  _armor_ . 

"This is my personal project," Isaak explained, stepping forward fully into Phaynel's presence.

"Can tell. Craft's excellent," Phaynel said, attempting at his usual demeanor, jerking a thumb toward the suit like it was just another object, not noticing the way he breathed the words.

"Very soon, it will be upgraded," the dredge stopped his advance just before where Phaynel's hand rested on a section of stone, his own clawed fingers skirting past.

Phaynel frowned and Isaak knew, the change in position was enough. He'd been aware of the dealings, the negotiations, and now, the looming prospect of alliance. What he didn't know about, was the Flame Legion. He was not a charr, with all their history to guide him, he was sylvari--and often reminded that he was younger than he felt. But he was ill at ease, and he wasn't afraid to voice it.

"Be careful. You don't know that you can trust them," Phaynel finally offered, the best words he could use.

"I didn't trust you."

And Phaynel allowed himself to be rightfully silenced.

"This could be the key to taking our independence," Isaak finished, and Phaynel knew that tone, knew that determination in the wartorn creature before him. The rebellion was his  _life_ , and that meant there were some risks that had to be taken, regardless of their possible outcomes. 

So Phaynel let his concern fade, and drifted back to the suit. For a few moments.

Moments that his dredge companion absorbed in ways Phaynel couldn't, ways he hadn't  _learned_ to. He never noticed the changes in his tone, his breathing, even his  _scent_ , that the suit brought out of him. The way his fingers slid over the plates, caressing, a way reserved for lovers. 

But then there were things Phaynel only  _hoped_ no one noticed. The heat that flared inside him, the way he felt trapped within his clothing, within  _logic and reason_ , even. Mechanical suits were not supposed to arouse. 

"You think it's beautiful," Isaak spoke softly... tactfully, like he was agreeing to keep the secret--and of course Phaynel understood that he  _knew_ . 

But then the clawed fingers traced back over the stone, resting over black and red.

"I think  _you're_ beautiful."

Phaynel knew what he meant. That same manipulation of language, the vulgar being hidden by the gentle. What he desired from a lifeless piece of metal, this living creature desired from  _him,_ and Phaynel wasn't certain he could honor that request.

So he sighed. And tried to find something to say to his best friend, one of the only people in Tyria, and possibly existence, that he could  _trust_ . And to a wandering Ranger, trust and love were one and the same. 

"Isaak--" Phaynel began, before the inevitable interruption.

"I know you could never find me attractive."

"I didn't s--"

"I've spoken to other surface dwellers..." Isaak began, letting his fingers scrape a long sound into the stone that was maybe nervous, but mostly lonely. "I can hear it in their voices, the way I must look to them."

The first silence was rightful, but this one was  _shameful._ Phaynel wasn't the kind of person who lied--and to offer any form of hope would be just that. 

But Isaak hadn't reached his station in life by waiting for others to offer hope.

_He made his own._

"Let me start it up for you. You want to see it, firestorm?"

The sudden change in direction had Phaynel startled.

"Yes."

\---

He'd released his breath at last when the suit made its first stir, thrumming through the earth, telling the dredge inside where he was, where all the objects were, though here, he likely needed no senses at all.

The suit extended its hand-arm, flexing, showing off its strength. Phaynel didn't flinch as it took a rumbling step forward, instead, his eyes were tracking, eventually getting caught up in the slide of the torso joint, well-lubricated plating responding efficiently to the movements of its creator.

_Everything about it was perfect._

When the thick metal finger curled under his chin, Phaynel let the shiver strike down his spine. There would have been no stopping it.

"Is it what you wanted?" Isaak asked from somewhere deep within the suit, and Phaynel realized that he could  _never_ allow this opportunity to escape. No matter what happened. 

_"Touch me,"_ he  _growled._

The finger slipped from his chin and ran down the front of his body, over his coat, down the front of his pants--and Phaynel practically  _choked_ on his gasp--at least before he was encircled in a grip, and lifted from the ground, effortlessly, weighing far less than any of the mine's treasures. 

Had he possessed more presence of mind, perhaps Phaynel would have become concerned about a giant drill coming to rest between his shamelessly-- _hungrily_ \--splayed legs, on the widening dampness staining the surface of his pants, but Phaynel possessed nothing at this point but the long groan that burst from his throat as Isaak powered up the drill, as weakly as possible, not enough to spin, but enough to make it hum with power.

"Unnnnnnnh..." Phaynel's entire body tensed, overwhelmed. He pressed--it was the primal reaction, forcing the trapped head of his branch's shaft against a smooth surface on the drill. Pleasure coursed through him as  _instant_ feedback and he found himself jerking back and forth, hips shivering in a cycle, pressing and releasing, trying to get more, and more, and  _more_ .

And all the while his companion maintained a devoted kind of composure--observing.

_Burning this into his memory--not that it could have been preserved any other way._

_Fire could only burn._

"Aaaaaaaahhh!" Phaynel  _screamed_ and clutched, grasping around the drill and pulling it down, demanding, and Isaak rotated it, just a tiny bit, just enough to make it catch and  _pull_ at Phaynel's pants and make the exact kind of friction he  _needed_ to come, hard, the throbbing that was each pulse of cum beating  _into_ the metal, carrying the sound through the suit--in a way, Isaak  _saw_ Phaynel come and he finally broke, panting heavily, his own arousal on display.

Arousal that would go unsatisfied, by his own decision. This was  _enough_ \--to finally witness the one he lusted after, like this. He suppressed his own panting breath to listen to the shudders that wracked Phaynel's body, the shallow inhales, the way he  _flopped_ in his suit's grasp, slack and spent--even the sticky cling the material of his pants made over him.

"Not even this," Isaak spoke, voice distant and cryptic to Phaynel, after an orgasm like that, "Nothing can extinguish you."

\---

The Flame Legion's shaman snarled in delight, eyes roving over the completed weapon. It had been their magic, that had enhanced the battlesuit, but as for the base material that had become this fearsome machine, well, his Legion did not create such magnificent works. That had been the purpose of alliance, after all.

An alliance that offered promising yields indeed.

"Nothing has ever burned hotter," he declared.

_Something has._

"All those who oppose the Alliance will burn, Isaak. That we promise you. The freedom... and rise--of  _both_ our peoples is assured."

The rebellion's leader nodded, resigned. There was no other option, after all. He'd made that decision long before this moment.

Before even the last time he'd seen Phaynel, his dearest friend, all that time ago--when the suit had been only a  _suit_ , and not a constant reminder of what he'd done.

With this one suit, he'd taken a risk for himself, and his people. The first had turned out to be foolish.

What would the second be?

"You built this weapon. What do you want it to be called?"

If this was to be the masterpiece of the Molten Alliance, there was only one name it could take. Isaak knew only one source of fire that could raze down his own heart--and while any machine, crafted by his hands or otherwise, could never truly compare... the name was  _right_ . 

"We call this one the Firestorm."

  
  


\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> You will never see another Molten Firestorm the same way.


End file.
